


You Say You Have No Secrets (But I Can Feel Them)

by thebittermountain



Series: And They Shine With The Light Of Other Worlds [5]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Marvel Cinematic Universe, NCIS, Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, BAMF Lucy, Can't Be Trusted, Gen, MI8 As A Counterpart To SHIELD, Much Heavy Sarcasm, Rhiannon and Ianto are Pevensies, Rhiannon is Badass, Rhiannon is a Spy (basically), The MCRT is confused, The Pevensies as Small Gods, Tom Morrow is Tired, UNIT, With A Wicked Sense of Humor, lots of humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17389025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebittermountain/pseuds/thebittermountain
Summary: The title is from the poem "Allegiances" by Emily Berry.Rhiannon Jones, Ianto's older sister, is enlisted by her Pevensie relatives to become part of Britain's version of SHIELD, MI8, in order to help keep an eye on Torchwood and UNIT since Ianto decided to join Torchwood, and the way Britain treats aliens is beginning to make the Pevensies concerned.She travels all over the world from 2002 to about 2007, learning from her Aunt Lucy's friends, before returning to Britain to protect her younger brother.





	1. I. A Woman Taken By The Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Rhiannon talks to her "Uncle" Eddie, Aunt Lucy, and "Grandmum" Polly, and is convinced to join MI8

_Cardiff, Wales. April 2001_

The woman known as Rhiannon Jones stared at the women in front of her. If any passerby had looked at the small group at the tea shop, they would have rightly assumed that all four women and the small children with them were related. They would, however, wrongly assume that the children were Rhiannon’s. No, they belonged to the red-haired woman—girl, some might call her—and the black-haired woman beside her. The only people at the table who were the age they looked were Rhiannon herself—she had just turned twenty-three—and the giggling children playing with toys around the women’s ankles. Rhiannon tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her hair, smoothing her bun back into the silk of a raven’s wing, and took a sip of her tea before speaking.

“Uncle Eddie, are you and Aunt Su sure?” The black-haired woman smiled, the motion not reaching her eyes, before she reached across the table to squeeze one of Rhiannon’s hands gently.

“Love, I wish I could tell you otherwise. I know Ianto just began working there.” At Rhiannon’s raised brow, she chuckled, something flashing in her black eyes. “Oh, Rhea, you know Su and I always have our eyes and ears, even after the Family leaves.” Despite her worry, Rhiannon couldn’t help giggling a bit.

“Uncle Eddie. I don’t care how many times you say that, or that Mam always says the same, every time, I can’t help thinking how ridiculous it sounds. We’re no gang!” Her uncle (really, more like a grandparent) quirked a brow in return.

“Aren’t we?” This time, Rhiannon wasn’t the only one to dissolve into laughter. The red-haired woman and the graying black-haired woman who formed the last of their quartet started laughing as well. Once the four women were all laughed out, and had satisfied the curiosity of the children, Rhiannon, her forehead furrowed, leaned forward.

“You’re not just worried about corruption, are you?” Eddie shook her head, lips in a flat line.

“No. Neither Su nor I have liked the direction that our alien intelligence agencies have been going in. The creation of UNIT, and the decisions that Torchwood began making consistently in the late ‘70s have been concerning when it comes to the treatment of nonhumans.” She paused, her face suddenly somehow revealing that she was far older than Rhiannon. “They’re careless and rigorous with the wrong protocols. That was the last line for Family agents. Torchwood Cardiff has been much better since the Captain took control, but he doesn’t trust those of us he believes to have been ‘touched’ by the magical.” Rhiannon blanched, and Eddie hastened to reassure her granddaughter (give or a take a generation or few).

“Rhea, love. Your mother spends most of her time in Narni'y now, and when she’s not, you know she won’t come to Wales, especially Cardiff.” Rhiannon looked down, mumbling slightly.

“Because of Da.” Eddie sighed.

“Yes, because of your father. And it’s not your fault, nor Ianto’s, my colt, for what happened. The fault belongs to Archer for not being able to understand your differences and uniqueness.” When Rhiannon didn’t seem convinced, Eddie lifted her hand to gently card her granddaughter’s hair. “Little colt. It was not your job to protect your brother. You were a child. You should have been allowed to be one.” Painful understanding crossed all three of the other women’s faces as Rhiannon shook her head, choking back a sob. “I know, love,” Eddie said, tender in a way that would have shocked most of her former coworkers. “We will talk of it more later, but right now, your Aunt Lu, Grandmum, and I need to warn you of something.” Rhiannon straightened, regaining control of herself, slightly reddened eyes the only visible sign of her upset. Eddie nodded in approval.

“What is it, Uncle Eddie? Something connected to Torchwood?” Eddie allowed herself a small grimace.

“Yes and no... Rhea, you know the lineage showed quite strongly in you and your brother, despite the many generations between us?” Rhiannon nodded, an absentminded hand over her hair causing it to shimmer in iridescence before her natural glamor reasserted itself.

“Mam always said she thought it had to do with her being born and growing up in Our Country.” Lu and Eddie shared a resigned glance as the graying woman chuckled.

“As usual, darling Gali only told you half the story. At least she didn’t try to refuse our visits with you,” Eddie said with a sigh. Rhiannon smiled wryly. She loved her mother, but Gali, known as Glenda on Earth, could be quite flighty and absentminded, with entirely different priorities than even the average Narni'yn. Perhaps it was due to her flowering dryad mother, but that was an unfair generalization of flowering dryads. Gali was, quite honestly, unique.

“What did she forget this time? Is it something you already told me?” she asked dryly. Eddie chuckled.

“Perceptive. I knew that was part of the reason why you are my heir.” She dragged a hand through her own iridescent hair. “Our Country will need the old line soon, as monarchs. We’re not quite sure why; there are still too many strands, even when we travel.” Rhiannon’s face was stony in a way that would be unrecognizable to many of her friends and schoolmates. She ducked her head before saying,

“Damyokrityos, I accept the responsibility. I assume that is why you brought Aleyksius with you?” Eddie smiled at her.

“I had no doubt of that. Indeed. I can teach powers better than she can, but Lu is much better at the public side of politics—as is Su, but she’s busy with her own concerns—which is what is most important for you to learn first.” Rhiannon cleared her throat.

“This can’t be the only reason you wanted to meet with me. If it was, we would have met in private.” All three of the other women shared a look before returning their gaze to Rhiannon. The little ones, thankfully, were still absorbed in their play.

“We need you to join MI8. Ianto doesn’t know what he is, or what he can do, because he decided to turn his back on the Family. You know he refuses to talk to any of us. Even the other cousins here.” Rhiannon nodded at Eddie’s words. “Bronagh Morita is Head of MI8. You know you can always rely on her, her siblings, and Jim,” the graying woman added.

“Yes, Grandmum. You all think we’ll need to step in?” Eddie gave her a sardonic look, and Rhiannon shrugged. “I’m only following Uncle Peter’s example.” Eddie let her head drop to the table.

“You _have_ heard the stories about how that’s turned out for him, no?” Rhiannon’s lip twitched.

“Yes, and I also know he did what he needed to despite his optimism. So, it usually worked out anyways.” Eddie groaned, not lifting her head.

“Not without many difficulties, but, unfortunately, much like your uncle, you have a point. I assume this means you’ll become an agent?” Rhiannon chuckled, covering her mouth.

“Yes, Uncle Eddie. If only to give you grey hairs.” Eddie groaned again, and Lu said in a mock-comforting voice,

“Ed, Rhiannon’s too responsible to give you grey hairs. But if you’re so worried about her seeing through challenges, I can always ask Ilya and his partners to help her out.” Eddie shot straight up so fast, an observer might be forgiven for thinking she was at risk of breaking something before turning to glare at Lu.

“Lu, you know that they are no example of subtlety, nor are they precisely role models.” Rhiannon leaned forward, intrigued. Lu winked at her as she said,

“But there’s no one better than Ilya to teach her how to fight lethally. Just as Napoleon is the best teacher of how to blend in with wealthy Terrans and steal things without being noticed. And of course, Gaby is a brilliant mechanic.” As Eddie closed her eyes in exasperation, Lucy continued. “My other friends are helpful too. Susan can explain her grandfather and Time Lords, while Ducky can teach her medicine and dissection.” Eddie sighed through her nose, while Rhiannon’s eyes widened. Finally, Eddie threw her hands up in frustration.

“Fine. I did agree that you should be in charge of the rest of Rhea’s training. Just don’t do anything completely reckless.” The laughter at this point was so loud it attracted not only the attention of the children playing at their feet, but that of many of the customers as well. Rhiannon was the first to recover her composure.

“Why’re you here then, Grandmum?” she asked the graying woman. Her uncle and aunt’s mentor grinned wickedly.

“To take you on a wild trip.” Rhiannon, long used to the whims of her family, merely shrugged, and stood up. After taking care of her bill, she said,

“Let me give my notice, and pack a bag, and I’ll be ready to go.” Lu laughed, clapping her hands, while Eddie pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Lovely! Ducky and I will see you in a few months, Rhea.” Rhiannon hugged them all, throwing her little cousins up in the air, much to their delight, before walking out of the tea shop, followed by the graying woman.

Almost a year later, after many educational trips throughout dimensions and times, Rhiannon and her "Grandmum" found their way to NCIS where Ducky was waiting for them. Much confusion subsequently abounded for the NCIS team, as did education for Rhiannon. She had already joined MI8, so naturally, both Bronagh and Peggy, who was still running SHIELD (though not for much longer) found a way to make her a liaison. She would need investigative training as an agent of MI8, after all.


	2. Wouldn't You Love To Love Her?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhiannon gets settled into NCIS, but then a strange crime is handed to the MCRT, and her cousin begins stirring things up

_Washington D.C., USA. March 2002_

“Lucy, my dear! It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other in person! And Rhea, you’ve grown up to be such a lovely young lady!” Everyone in the bullpen at NCIS turned to look up at the stairs when they heard Dr. Mallard. He was standing, along with the Director, with two unfamiliar women. Tony DiNozzo, being appreciative of physical beauty and not afraid to comment on it (that would be called a polite understatement), whistled as the women walked down the stairs with Ducky.

Jethro Gibbs was prepared to head-slap him when the tall red-head with hair swept back in retro Victory rolls laughed, the sound carrying. Tony promptly proceeded to choke on his tongue when the woman said, in a rustic-sounding English accent (not the kind you hear on television),

“Young man, don’t you think that’s more than a little forward when we haven’t even been introduced? I appreciate the compliment, but you’re far too young for me, even if I wasn’t already happily married.” At her side, Ducky seemed to be resisting the urge to laugh, and even Director Morrow was smiling. The shorter black-haired woman, who bore a slight resemblance to the redhead, was covering her mouth, but as her shoulders were shaking, it was likely safe to assume she was laughing as well. After a quirk of his lips at Tony, Gibbs gave into a chuckle as well. It was almost as if he broke a spell in doing so, as the bullpen began to roll with laughter. To his credit, Tony quickly saw the humor, laughing, and bowing dramatically to amused applause. The group of four slowly continued down the stairs. When they reached the last landing, Director Morrow raised his hand for silence, which spread in a slow wave. He cleared his throat, resting his left arm on the railing.

“This is MI6 Agent Rhiannon Pevensie,” he said, holding out a hand in the black-haired woman’s direction. She smiled politely. “Some of you might recognize her mother, Lucy Pevensie, from her consultant work on cases that occurred on British soil or with British nationals. Rhiannon will be liaising with us to gain investigative experience with cases that cross multiple jurisdictional boundaries. In practicality, this means she may be assigned to any one of your teams, as I, or her superiors, judge fit.” Everyone stared in silence up at the Director, who finally made a small grimace, and motioned for the women and Ducky to continue down the stairs before heading back up to his office. As Ducky and his friends hit the ground floor and began walking to the elevator, talking quietly to each other, a wide path opened in their wake. Though people had been amused by Ms.—or Dr.—Pevensie’s take-down of Tony, it had also thrown them off. Most people didn’t give as good as they got with Tony.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. It did no good to be stand-offish just because the two women were unknown entities. So, even though he’d never claim to be much of a people person, he approached the three of them, meeting them at the elevator. He caught the tail-end of a conversation before Ducky turned his attention to him.

“—anything I need to be worried about?” Dr. Pevensie shook her head.

“No, please just teach Rhea what you can about medicine. And if you’d be able to host the rest of the quartet…” she trailed off, and Ducky smiled at her, his whole face lighting up.

“Only if you promise to spend some time there too. It’s been too long.” Dr. Pevensie smiled and kissed his cheek.

“It has. Of course.” She then turned a brilliant smile on Gibbs and held her hand. He took it, appreciative and observant of the firm grasp, and calluses on her hands. He also observed that, despite her rather high heels, Dr. Pevensie carried herself like a soldier. Not in a regular, military straight posture, but more fluidly, like someone accustomed to Special Ops. Interesting, he thought, considering she was likely at least ten years older than him, if not more. “Dr. Lucy Pevensie, degree in Medicine, focusing on combat and soldiers,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “Ducky and I went to school together in Edinburgh.” Jethro covered his surprise at her age with a small grin.

“SSA Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Gunnery Sergeant in the Marines. I take it Ducky had that nickname before he joined us, then?” Dr. Pevensie threw her head back in laughter as they entered the elevator. Once the doors slid closed, she gave Jethro a conspiratorial grin, green eyes twinkling.

“Oh, I came up with it. He eventually warmed up to it.” Ducky groaned as all three of his companions snickered.

“Lucy. It’s only because you are terrifyingly persistent, and your siblings are even worse.” Dr. Pevensie chuckled.

“Fair enough, old friend. Though I maintain Peter is more stubborn, while Su is the most terrifying.” Ducky shrugged as Agent Pevensie nodded fervently.

“I won’t deny it. Nonetheless, you are all terrifying.”

“And you love me for it.”

“For my sins, yes.” Dr. Pevensie snickered again before turning back to Jethro with a glint in her eye.

“Now, I had you pinned as a soldier. But I can see that he might have befriended you due to your similarities with Peter and Su.” Jethro raised a questioning brow at Ducky, but Dr. Pevensie answered again.

“You’re clearly a sniper like Su, so you must have her patience and reticence. But from the few stories I’ve heard from Ducky and Director Morrow, as well as working with you on a few cases, I can tell you are just as ruthless as Peter when it comes to people you love. I approve.” Jethro blinked, and shook his head slightly. Finally, he decided to respond to only one part of that overload.

“That’s why you looked familiar, Dr. Pevensie. You helped us out with that one case with the British and American Naval Officers in compromising positions.” She grinned wickedly as the bell dinged, letting them out in the forensics lab.

* * *

“Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs!” Rhiannon blinked as a Goth blur in a lab coat ran past her into Gibbs’ arms. Aunt Lu looked amused and was probably going to be no help at all, so she turned to Uncle Ducky, who was chuckling quietly. At her questioning look, he leaned toward her, saying,

“Abigail Sciuto is the lab director for NCIS headquarters. She might be a little eccentric, but as we both know, that is no detriment to competence. She and Jethro latched on to each other when they joined NCIS. Abigail’s parents had recently died, and Jethro’s family had as well. They both needed someone to care about.” Rhiannon nodded, and fixed a polite (and mostly sincere) smile on her face as the bubbly forensic scientist turned around to acknowledge the other people in the main lab.

“Ducky! Good morning!” Uncle Ducky smiled, and gave the woman a one-armed hug before saying,

“Good morning, Abigail. My dear, this is Rhiannon Pevensie, a family member of mine, and a British Intelligence liaison who will be working with NCIS for a while.” Sciuto gave Rhiannon a long look before bounding over to give her a big hug. Rhiannon felt her smile widening, enjoying the other woman’s friendliness and impulsiveness.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Sciuto. Please, call me Rhea.” Sciuto grinned at her.

“I’m Abby then. You have to come bowling with me and the nuns sometime.” Rhiannon couldn’t help blinking and shaking her head a bit in surprise while Gibbs and Uncle Ducky smiled.

“Abby does that with every person she adopts into her friend circle. It’s best just to say yes. The nuns are lovely women.” Rhiannon looked past Abby at the new voice, recognizing the man who had rather coarsely complimented her and Aunt Lu. She gave him a doubtful look.

“I like Abby already, but I’m not sure I want to trust the word of someone like you…” she trailed off. The man shrugged, his green eyes darkening briefly before he said,

“DiNozzo. Tony DiNozzo. Gibbs’ probie on the MCRT.” She nodded and offered an olive branch. She’d likely see a lot of Gibbs’ team.

“Well, I suppose if Abby invited you to go bowling with nuns, there must be something redeemable in you.” He winced, his voice sheepish as he offered,

“My sense of humor? I can’t say either the way my parents raised me or being a cop lends itself to manners.” Rhiannon relaxed a little bit at the way he stumbled (subtly, but it was still apparent) over the first part of his sentence.

“I guess I’ll give you a chance. I get less-than-perfect parents. Mum here is actually my grandmother. She and her siblings did a lot of my raising. Mam and Da weren’t the best at being parents.” She knew she’d made the right decision when Tony’s shoulders relaxed. She wasn’t sure they’d be friends, but she was certain they could develop an effective rapport. Aunt Lu stepped in before the falling silence could get awkward.

“Now, I know Agents DiNozzo and Gibbs know this already, but Abigail, Ducky and I went to school together. You can blame me for his nickname. He certainly does. Dr. Lucy Pevensie,” she said, holding out a hand. Abby giggled, and shook Aunt Lu’s hand firmly.

_Washington, D.C. April 2003, NCIS Headquarters_

Anthony Paddington DiNozzo, called Junior by his neglectful father, and Tony by most everyone else, was utterly fascinated by MI6 Agent Rhiannon Pevensie. They’d gotten off to a rocky start due to his honed playboy attitude, which, he could admit, if only to himself, was sometimes a defense mechanism that went too far. In return for Agent Pevensie’s toleration, Tony was toning down some of his more offensive behavior. He had a feeling Gibbs appreciated it too. He’d certainly received less head-slaps lately. Occasionally, Tony might even call Agent Pevensie a friend. Or, at least he would, if he didn’t know she was hiding something. Either Abby didn’t notice (which he doubted), or she had decided it wasn’t relevant (more likely).

Gibbs had apparently gone the route of not relevant, though he did always try to flirt politely with Agent Pevensie’s mother when she showed up to eat lunch with Ducky and Agent Pevensie. Despite the heavy gold ring on her finger. Tony admired Gibbs’ bravery—he’d never try to flirt with a married woman—but wondered if there was another reason for it. But Ducky. Ducky and Director Morrow clearly knew Agent Pevensie’s secret. The Director kept pulling her off for a private conversation every so often, for God’s sake!

“A penny for your thoughts, DiNozzo?” He looked up at the subject of his thoughts, who was currently perched on his desk. He let his gaze linger over the British woman. She really was stunning, with smooth black hair, deep blue eyes, what his Nonna called “having plenty of meat on her bones”, and a competent, confident air that was borne out by her good work in the field. She snorted. “Like what you see, then Tony? Might I remind you, hands off?” He was reminded of two other attractive qualities of hers: a sense of humor and a lilting Welsh accent. He straightened up, forcing his eyes up to her face.

“Surely you can forgive me for being overwhelmed by your beauty, Rhiannon? Is Gibbs in yet?” She chuckled as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

“I hope you have better lines when you pick up girls. No, he’s not, but we’re both early today, so he should be here any minute.” Sure enough, as if summoned by Rhiannon’s words, the elevator dinged, and Gibbs stepped out, coffee in hand. Oddly, he had a second cup that he handed to Rhiannon. She smirked, the expression half-hidden as she took a sip from her cup.

“Thank you, Gibbs. How is Mum?” Gibbs shot her a muted glare, and she giggled. “I don’t know why you keep trying. She is happily married. If you really want to meet a redhead like her, I can introduce you to one of my cousins. They’re closer to your age anyway.” Gibbs grumbled something indistinct as he sipped his own coffee and turned his computer on. Rhiannon’s smirk widened, but she didn’t say anything else. Abruptly, Gibbs turned his attention on Tony and the temporary probie, Clare Singh.

“Did you two finish your reports yet?”

“Yes Boss.”

“Yes sir.” Gibbs grunted, turning back to his computer. He narrowed his eyes at something, then cleared his throat, grabbing his bag and gun.

“Come on, we’ve got an incident with a British Admiral and an American ensign.” Tony didn’t need any other instruction, jumping up to follow Gibbs’ lead, and urging Clare to do the same. Gibbs was at the elevator when he turned around, almost in Tony’s face. Tony quickly stepped back as Gibbs shouted,

“Pevensie! What are you dawdling about?!” Rhiannon looked up at him with mock innocence as she jumped off Tony’s desk and grabbed her own bag.

“What, do you need me to protect you from Mum if she’s doing the forensics? Won’t Uncle Ducky be enough?” About half the bullpen started choking, and avoiding Gibbs’ eyes, though they really should be used to this by now. Gibbs pinched the bridge of his nose, face slightly red.

“Pevensie. Get your ass over here. You know why you need to be there.” Rhiannon grinned, walking over.

“Well yes, but a girl likes to feel wanted, Gibbs. You could stand to use your words every so often.” The elevator door closed on more choking, as Gibbs groaned quietly,

“You’re worse than Abby _or_ Tony.”

“Boss!”

 

_British Embassy, Washington, D.C._

Jethro resisted the urge to growl at—well, everyone, as he listened to Ducky, and sure enough, Lucy Pevensie, go over the medical details of the case. For once, neither of the victims were dead, which was a plus, but on the other hand, it was shaping up to be extremely complicated.

Not only could Admiral Beechwold-Long and Ensign Rosales cause an international incident if their relationship got out, but whoever (or whatever) had attacked them had secret agents crawling all over the place. He’d been abruptly reminded of Rhiannon’s status when she promptly went over to talk to a group of the suits guarding the door where the victims were. He drifted closer but was firmly stymied by Rhiannon glancing up at him with a novel look of authority that stopped him in his tracks.

“Gibbs, my sincere apologies, but you don’t have the clearance for this. I barely have the clearance.” Jethro really did growl this time.

“Well, can I actually do my job at some point, Pevensie? Or are all these suits just going to yank jurisdiction away?” Rhiannon sighed, her bright blue eyes darkening briefly as she gave him an apologetic look. Abruptly, she looked more than a few years older as sunlight hit her face.

“I can’t tell you that right now. I can tell you that you can question all the lower-ranking staff not occupied by ‘suits’.” Jethro blew out a long breath, then went to go bark at DiNozzo.

* * *

Rhiannon shifted on her feet, sharing a quick look with Bronagh. The fact that the older woman was here, instead of letting the head of MI8’s resources in the States handle things was a clear indication that something else was going on. It wasn’t just pillow-talk and national security on the line. Hell, if it had been, SHIELD wouldn’t have been involved; it would have been MI6 and probably the CIA or Homeland. Unfortunately, SHIELD seemed to be going to hell already, and it hadn’t even been a year since Aunt Peggy stepped down. The agent sent to deal with this mess was a certain Robert Gonçalves, and to be honest the man seemed to be a bigoted, officious, ignorant, arrogant prick. She shared another look with Bronagh as Gonçalves continued to bluster on.

“ _Abve kharmyoukhi akluths kujim ‘kseyrukhi niziyo nyo zbyoruvukhi dupa’gya avdaks kentaryo t'na kusmu_ ,” she said dryly under her breath.

“ _Aniceytyos would have already sliced his head off for disrespect_ ,” her cousin responded in the same language, smirking a little. Gonçalves glared at them, understanding the tone, if not the meaning of their words, and opened his mouth to reprimand them. Bronagh crossed her arms, a most imposing ‘disapproving mother’ mask on her face. “Young man, I don’t believe I care who ye thinks ye are. You’re nothing but an overblown balloon full of your own importance, wasting priceless time.” Gonçalves sputtered, his face reddening, and stuck his finger in her face. Rhiannon winced, and she could see similar actions done by the other MI8 agents in her peripheral vision. Bronagh’s grey eyes went icy, and her posture stiffened. Her cousin and superior officer might be petite, but there was a reason her nickname in MI8 was “Irish Viper.” Sure enough, her left hand whipped out and two sharp cracking sounds were heard before Gonçalves stumbled back, looking at his broken finger and dislocated wrist in mixed horror and disbelief. “Go on back to Mummy now,” Bronagh said cuttingly, “and tell SHIELD we’ll be taking point. If they ask, it’s because of yer _astounding_ disrespect to the Director herself.” The man practically ran toward the exit, briefly tripping. After he’d disappeared through the glass door, Bronagh dusted her hands, and turned to Rhiannon. “Now, let’s get to work,” she said lightly, her thick County Cork accent bleeding back into her voice. Rhiannon coughed, and nodded. She wasn’t yet quite sure she was ready to be part of MI8’s elite, but she wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to improve her skills, either.

* * *

Raoul Beechwold-Long blanched as Director Morita walked into the room of the Embassy where he and César were being detained. And that was before he saw the woman who walked in behind her, a woman who looked like a blue-eyed version of his Granddad’s commander’s sister. He put his head into his hands, and ignored César’s concerned questions as he muttered a feeling,

“Shite.”

“Shite is correct, Agent Beechwold-Long. Now would you mind telling me not only how you entangled yourself with a US Navy Ensign, and managed to lose a handle on the mark you were chasing?” Director Morita’s voice was more than a bit steely, her usually thick Irish brogue completely obliterated into silver-spoon English, but she wasn’t shouting at him, so Raoul figured that it was safe enough to lift his head, even if she was clearly furious. He jumped slightly as he was faced with the Director’s icy grey eyes right across from him but managed not to be thrown off by her companion’s intense stare. He blew out a long breath before beginning to speak.

“César and I met at a military function, and yes I know it was stupid, Director. I tried to avoid him—” he ignored César’s indrawn breath and sideways glance, “—but obviously, I wasn't successful, Director. But—” Director Morita cut him off.

“Clearly. At least I can be reassured that the one thing that hasn’t changed over the years is your good taste in lovers. That’s not important right now, however. I need to know why you haven’t either recruited or turned him.” Raoul, Director Morita, and the strangely familiar woman with her all ignored César’s choked splutter. Raoul glanced at the cameras in the conference room before he answered. The familiar black-haired woman smirked, holding up a remote-sized sound and image disruptor. He let his shoulders slump from their military-straight posture slightly.

“I was thinking about it before all of this happened. But there are a few problems.” The black-haired woman leaned forward, her blue eyes sharp.

“What kind, Agent Beechwold-Long? You know as well as us mundane problems are easily sorted.” Raoul blinked at her Welsh lilt.

“Who are you, ma’am?” he asked, ignoring Director Morita’s raised brows and tapping foot. The woman smiled, the action lighting up her face.

“Junior Agent Rhiannon Pevensie. Well, Jones in the mundane world.” Raoul couldn’t help the way his fists clenched on the polished oak conference table.

“Pevensie?” he asked hoarsely. She nodded. “Which one?” She tilted her head, bright blue eyes bleeding darker.

“Uncle Eddie is my grandmother by a couple generations. My mother wasn’t born in this dimension. Now, will you answer the questions Bronagh and I posed to you? The sooner you do, the sooner we can get this solved, Agent Beechwold-Long.” He cleared his throat, stubbornly pointing his gaze away from César.

“The first problem is rather mundane. César still doesn’t have citizenship in the States and much of his family is here either on green cards or illegally.” He paused as Director Morita made a notation in her eponymous electronic pad. “The second is less so. He’s a descendant of one of the Liberties, and you know they never appreciate our interference.” Agent Pevensie’s sigh overlapped with César’s strangled sound of surprise. She and Director Morita shared a glance, conversing briefly in the language familiar to senior members of MI8, but unintelligible to even most of the upper echelon. Then the two of them turned back to Raoul and César. Raoul didn’t have to look at César to know that his lover was gaping as well.

Agent Pevensie’s black hair was now iridescent, her eyes a solid black shot across by brief blinks of color, her pale skin darkening to a more Mediterranean complexion, and flowers seemed to be blooming from her hair and wrists as pixels, binary, and commands flowed around her.

“I believe that your mother will be more amenable if the British Technology speaks to her, will she not, César, son of Liberdad?” Raoul chanced a glance over at César, whose face was sallow with shock. Cautiously he moved one of his hands to cover his lover’s own, squeezing gently. César gave him a weak smile before shakily responding to the Goddess.

“I believe she would, yes, ma’am. We were aware of your existence, but not who you were. I am wondering why you want me though.” Raoul could feel a headache forming as he realized that his grandfather’s stories had not been too far off reality. Surprisingly, the Goddess’s smile was wide and friendly.

“Then we will plan for that. Now—” she replaced her glamour, once again appearing a young woman in her twenties, “—Agent Beechwold-Long, Ensign Rosales, we need to know what happened, from your point of view. We have some information from the techs, but your experience will give us more clues and coherency.” Raoul shared an uneasy look with César before they turned back to the two women.

* * *

Singh and DiNozzo had reached the limits of people they had the clearance to question and were talking to Ducky and Lucy Pevensie or photographing the scene, respectively, while Jethro was being stonewalled by an unnervingly bland suit with a military carriage. Jethro would swear completely honestly that the deadpan agent was laughing at him, though he wouldn’t be able to prove it to anyone. He glared at the other man, resisting the urge to growl.

“ _Is there anything you can tell me, Agent_ Coulson?” He fired off in Arabic, not really expecting an answer. To his exhausted surprise—he just had the feeling this case was going to be a long one—Coulson replied in a different, if intelligible, dialect.

“ _More than I could in English, Agent_ Gibbs.” He paused, glancing around and shifting briefly on his feet before saying, still in Arabic, “ _My agency is far from leading this investigation; I have a feeling we were included as a courtesy on_ Morita _’s behalf because her cousin is technically part of_ SHIELD a _s of now. I doubt that courtesy will continue much longer considering Agent_ Goncalves’ _behavior and_ Morita _’s skeptic attitude toward Director_ Carter _’s successor. On the other hand, they will still require American involvement in order to operate as they wish_.” Jethro raised a brow as he took in the other man’s words.

“I won’t spy for you, Coulson,” he said gruffly. The other agent shrugged fluidly.

“I wouldn’t expect it, Gibbs. I was merely giving advice,” he said, walking away as Rhiannon walked back in, not only accompanied by the polished older woman Jethro guessed was the referenced Morita, but also the two victims. As he observed the dynamic between the two women, and the manner in which the British Admiral deferred to her, Jethro was filled with sharp doubt about Rhiannon’s claimed lack of clearance. He knew better than to think he would get a straight answer out of her, particularly in their current setting, contenting himself with a lope in their direction. Jethro didn’t miss Rhiannon’s amusement as he approached. He had a feeling he knew what it was about, but refused to be embarrassed, though he had to admit he was shocked at her words.

“Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, allow me to introduce you to my cousin and our British liaison, Bronagh Morita.” Jethro coughed briefly, holding out a hand, appreciating Morita’s firm, steady grasp.

“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Call me Jethro, or Gibbs if we’re being formal. You don’t look a bit like our Rhiannon.” The Admiral choked, and Rhiannon snickered, while Morita merely smiled, the action turning her striking, sharp-boned face stunning and lighting up her pale grey eyes.

“No, I haveta say, ye’re the pleasure, Jethro. Rhiannon didna tell me she had such attractive colleagues,” she said in a thick Irish brogue. Jethro could feel his cheeks heating, and was glad he didn’t blush easy, particularly when she said, “I insist ye call me Bronagh, then.” She leaned closer, her eyes glinting wickedly. “I hope we kin further our acquaintance while I'm here.” She dropped his hand, striding over Ducky and Lucy Pevensie. Jethro ignored Admiral Beechwold-Long’s continued choking as he watched Bronagh Morita’s elegant stride and admired the extremely dark silver-shot auburn fall of her hair down her back. He would swear until the day he died that he didn’t bite back a yelp when Rhiannon elbowed him, grinning.

“I told you I had cousins like Aunt Lu. Bronagh is only twelve years older than you, and, of course, unmarried. Though you will have to pass through the gauntlet composed of Aunt Colleen, Uncle Jim, Uncle Easy, and Aunt Jill.” Jethro stared at her without amusement.

“Rhiannon, again, you're worse than Tony. And how exactly did you get your hands on my file?” Rhiannon’s grin widened. “If you think I’m bad, you should spend more time around Aunt Lu. Or Grandmum Polly.” Jethro noticed she hadn’t answered his second question, but gave up as she added, “You can interrogate Admiral Beechwold-Long and Ensign Rosales now, but I would advise neglecting to push them if they refuse to answer. You’ll learn more when we go back to Britain.” Jethro sighed with exasperation as she walked off to join her cousin, but took her invitation, turning to the now red-faced Admiral and slightly shell-shocked Ensign.

 

_NCIS Headquarters, Washington D.C._

Raoul didn’t think he’d ever been so completely blindsided and was therefore extremely grateful for his training. He might not have been able to conceal his shock at Agent Pevensie and Director Morita’s behavior and subsequent teasing of Agent Gibbs, but he hadn’t let any unauthorized information slip. And to his credit (and Raoul’s surprise), neither had César, despite his considerably more pressing obligations to the American Navy and its investigative service. He felt rather guilty for putting his erstwhile lover in this position, but when he attempted to apologize, César had flat-out stated, in a dry voice, that,

“I don’t doubt something would have happened even without this, Raoul. At least now it can be sorted out with individuals who understand the weight of it. Can you imagine the mess if the CIA had tried to force their way into all of this?” Both Raoul and Agent Gibbs winced at that, while Director Morita and Agent Pevensie coughed suspiciously. Gibbs ignored their hidden amusement pointedly, directing his two underlings in a brusque manner. Agent Singh was sent scurrying for the forensic lab while Agent DiNozzo was sent to claim an empty conference room.

Gibbs was just turning to Agent Pevensie when the NCIS Director himself came down the mezzanine steps. He hid it well, but Raoul could tell that Director Morrow was surprised, concerned, and irritated by Director Morita’s presence. It was obvious that Agent Gibbs had noticed his behavior as well, shifting to a more defensive stance.

“Morita…what an unexpected pleasure. What can NCIS do for you?” he asked after reaching them. At that moment, DiNozzo poked his head out from a conference room, and Agent Pevensie chivvied Raoul and David in that direction before Raoul could hear his Director’s response.

* * *

Tom Morrow resisted the urge to glare at the Director of an agency he wasn’t really supposed to know about. Bronagh Morita smiled brightly back at him, barely looking any different from when he’d last seen her fifteen years ago. Minus a few lines and the increased grey hair, but that didn’t really have an impact. She still had an intimidating presence and an impeccably put-together appearance. Finally, he sighed, and pulled her into a hug, sharply aware of the many staring eyes when he grumbled loudly,

“Rita, what the hell are you doing in DC? I didn’t even get a phone call.” She chuckled as she pulled away, glancing over at Gibbs, who was giving Tom an oddly territorial look before he realized what he was doing and dropped his gaze with a shrug. Tom’s eyes widened as Rita smirked. Tom sighed again, telling Gibbs to go oversee the questioning of Admiral Lloyd and Ensign Rosales before heading to the elevator, Rita following behind him. Once they’d reached his office, he engaged security procedures, deactivated recordings, and dropped down in his chair before groaning. Rita perched on the edge of his desk, bringing back memories.

“You can’t steal my agents, Rita. And anyways, isn’t he a bit young for you?” She smirked again, leaning forward.

“Who said I was goin’ ta steal him? We’re both adults, Morrie, and we’re neither of us married, yeah?” She kicked her heels off on his desk, ignoring his glare before adding, “And how is Uncle Tim, by the by? Havenae seen him nor Aunt Elena in ages. Or yer Mam and Da, fer that matter.” Tom shook his head, already feeling the harbingers of a headache—a usual occurrence with his “cousin”.

“Grandad is fine, if getting on in years. Granny can’t walk anymore but is still just as ornery. I haven’t seen Dad since he had his last fight with them two years ago, but Mom is still getting on just fine. Now please stop trying to distract me. What are you doing here, getting involved my jurisdiction?” Rita sobered, straightening up and hopping off the desk to pull a chair over—leaving her heels behind, he noticed with irritation—and pulling a phone and a tablet of some sort out when she sat down.

“My people are all in this bloody mess, Morrie. I kin assure ye we had na intention. Some Family stuff goin’ on; we wisht ta focus on that. But right naw, not a good time ta sit back ‘n let SHIELD deal wi’ it.” Tom frowned, a conclusion beginning to form in the back of his head.

“Aunt Peggy’s retirement? It was that much of a problem?” Rita nodded, but Tom had the feeling she wasn’t telling him everything. He wasn’t insulted, nor surprised, really. Their family of sorts was decidedly full of secrets. He pushed back and up from his chair, ignoring the creaking that resulted, and catching Rita’s attention. She followed him up, tilting her head up to meet his eyes curiously as he cleared his throat.

“Look, just please don’t get my agents killed or arrested, Rita.” She hesitated. “I don’t want to know why Agent Pevensie is here. I’m assuming she’s related to the Captain.” Rita nodded, pinning her greying red hair back with a clip that emerged practically from thin air.

“Arrested I kin probably manage ta avoid, ‘n I’ll try ma best ta not let any o’ the young’uns end up deid.” Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, but didn’t protest, knowing that was the best she could conceivably promise realistically.

“Alright. Rita…?” She turned around, her hand on the door. He held up her heels by the straps, not saying a word. She snorted, loping back over to snatch them and Tom took down the security measures. As she opened the door, he called,

“Will you come over for dinner? I already told them you’re in town, and Granddad has been texting me nonstop.” She nodded, not turning around.

“Sure, ‘n I’m bringing Lucy, Rhea, and Gibbs.” Tom glared at her back. She seemed to know what he was doing, because she added,

“Gibbs can read ye in on th’ case—least from NCIS’s side. As fer Lucy and Rhea, well Lucy’s Uncle Peter’s sister, and Rhea’s her niece.”

“Fine. But you get to explain it to everyone.”

“Why would you think otherwise?” was the far too amused response as she left, her heels still slung over her shoulder.

As his phone buzzed almost immediately, Tom nobly resisted the urge to throw it at the wall. He’d known Rita his entire life. How did she still manage to wrangle him into these situations?

* * *

Jethro was sure he was on the verge of cracking Ensign Rosales. Despite his shock at the interaction between Agent Morita and himself, Admiral Beechwold-Long was a harder nut to crack. Jethro was willing to bet—and he wasn’t a betting man—that the Admiral hadn’t broken his stoic stone face since he’d stepped foot in the interrogation room. Ensign Rosales, on the other hand, kept glancing over at Rhiannon with what Jethro would call almost a nervous expression every few moments. Neither of them had said more than two or three words, and Jethro was more than a bit frustrated when Bronagh Morita, her bright green heels hooked on two fingers, slipped into the room, distracting everyone, including Jethro. Unfortunately, by the time her distracting appearance had lost its impact, Ensign Rosales had regained his equilibrium. Jethro gave Agent Morita a flat look that she ignored as her phone rang. She turned her back as she answered, but the words were still intelligible. Jethro had a feeling that was intentional—at least at first. If Morita was anything like Rhiannon, most things she did in an interrogation were intentional.

“ _Moshi moshi_. Yeah. We found a lead. Liaisin’ wi’NCIS.” She paused for an indistinct response, then said, her voice tinged with slight irritation, “Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Ye shuid know that’n by now, Morrie leads it.” Rhiannon snorted. Jethro shook his head slightly, fighting a smile. Morita’s voice rose after another pause. “WHAT did ye say? Another one? Whose involved?” Jethro looked over at the others. Rhiannon and Admiral Beechwold-Long were sharing a glance. Ensign Rosales looked a combination of confused and concerned. DiNozzo just looked bemused. Jethro rubbed the bridge of his nose—this was beginning to seem even more complicated. Pushing his chair back, he stood, going to lean against the door and crossing his arms.

Morita lowered her voice, switching to what sounded like Japanese before snapping the phone shut and slipping her phone into an almost invisible pocket. Jethro opened his mouth, but she dropped her shoes and crossed to the two-way mirror before knocking gently on it.

“Shut the recording. Call up the Director if you have any doubts.” Jethro blinked at the sudden change in accent to a plummy Queen’s English, noting Admiral Beechwold-Long’s wince and the flattening of Rhiannon’s expression. A few moments later, there was a knock on the door, and he opened it to Director Morrow. He received a nod before the Director said,

“Rita. Everyone’s been chased out, and the recording’s off. It’s just Dr. Pevensie, Dr. Mallard, and Agent Singh now.” Morita nodded.

“Thank ye, Morrie.” She paused, her expression darkening.

“This is goin’ ta make yer world more complicated.” Director Morrow shook his head, lips upturned in a wry grin.

“When has your involvement ever not had that result?” he muttered under his breath before shutting the door behind him.

Morita didn’t bother to slip her shoes on as she moved to stand at the interrogation table. Rhiannon sat in the chair Jethro had vacated. Neither of them should have been that imposing. A heavy-set woman in her twenties (although clearly with some muscle) who was leaning back with a closemouthed smile and a petite middle-aged woman in stocking feet who didn’t clear five feet weren’t normally individuals most people found intimidating.

Still, Jethro couldn’t deny that they both gave off their own dangerous auras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if some tech seems ahead of time, it’s because SHIELD, MI8, and Torchwood all have access to more advanced technology/more resources than the average law enforcement agency.  
> This took a direction I did not plan. Why does this keep happening? Thanks plot bunnies. 
> 
> Also, the comment Rhiannon makes to Bronagh translates roughly as: "I love listening to know-nothings who think they're the center of the world." Sarcasm abounds in this fic.


End file.
